


Nothing to forgive (everything to forget)

by ShakespearianBlondie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, I still believe in Pol!Jon, Lord Commander Snow, Post Season 8, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queen in the North, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Wolves Will Come Again, everything will hurt and then nothing will, post s8e6, season 8 fix-it, the epilogue we deserved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespearianBlondie/pseuds/ShakespearianBlondie
Summary: Jon keeps his distances for an entire year before he sees her again. It’s not that he doesn’t wish to but he just can’t. Not after everything he’s done or said. Not after everything they’ve been through.He knows he doesn’t possess the strength to meet her piercing blue gaze - it’s even hard sometimes for him when the sky is clear and blue, so blue that he feels as though she is everywhere. But she is. In his dreams and nightmares, in his thoughts and dreams, in his fears and desires.He hears of her coronation, of the way that the whole North claimed her as their Queen. The Red Wolf, she’s called. Sometimes when he spends his evening in his chambers, watching as the fire slowly dies, she is the only flame he thinks of.Sometimes different roads lead to the same castle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm aware that I'm already writing two AU Jonsa fics but to be honest, after that mess of an episode, I just had to write something to fix it. It won't be long, probably a few chapters, but I felt like we all deserved a decent epilogue. Although I still believe in Jon and Sansa finding each other again in the future, I'm really pissed at the way D&D handled this season. Let's hope GRRM fix everything and in the meantime, here's my take on what happened afterwards!

Jon keeps his distances for an entire year before he sees _her_ again. It’s not that he doesn’t wish to but he just can’t. Not after everything he’s done or said. Not after everything they’ve been through. He knows he doesn’t possess the strength to meet her piercing blue gaze - it’s even hard sometimes for him when the sky is clear and blue, so blue that he feels as though she is everywhere. But she is. In his dreams and nightmares, in his thoughts and dreams, in his fears and desires. He hears of her coronation, of the way that the whole North claimed her as their Queen. The Red Wolf, she’s called. Sometimes when he spends his evening in his chambers, watching as the fire slowly dies, she is the only flame he thinks of.

 

Not the other Queen.

 

Jon spends his time between the dark walls of Castle Black and the immaculate immensity of the wild North. When everything is too much - the company of men who sees him as a hero, the looks of those who call him a Queenslayer or even the feeling that she is close, so close, only a few days away from him - he leaves with Ghost. The Free Folks ask no questions, their stare aren’t cloudy with assumptions. Tormund always welcomes him with open arms and some ale. But even there, she follows him. It seems as if he can’t get rid of her presence, not that he wishes to. He misses her. He misses what he was when they were together, when he hoped that it could just be the two of them, sheltered from the absurdity of politics. Jon doesn’t like who he is, he never did. Bastard. Traitor. Killer. But when she was by his side, he could be someone else. Brother. King. Man. 

 

They love her. Whenever he hears the smallfolks, or even the new recruits that the Wall welcomes every moon, talking about her, it’s only with words of admiration and respect. She is a good Queen. She is fierce and just and brave and gentle. She is strong. Stone after stone, she is slowly rebuilding the North. They say Winterfell has found a new glory. They say that this might be the sweetest Winter that the Kingdom has known because she makes sure every man, woman and child goes through it. It’s no surprise to Jon to learn that she is doing exactly what needs to be done. She is good at ruling, always has been. 

 

They also say she is beautiful. The exact words are far more praising: glorious, exquisite, radiant. They talk about her eyes, who could be as cold as the frozen lakes beyond the Wall or choppier than the rivers of her Mother’s birthplace. There is a saying that proclaims that it is not only her hair but her entire being that is kissed by fire for she sets ablaze any man - or even woman - who sees her. They say she must have been forged by the Old Golds themselves, her face carved in a sacred tree and that if one were to cut the ground of the North deep enough, it would be her blood to spurt through the snow. 

 

There are also rumours of ravens sent by every Northern Lord bold enough to dare ask for her hand. But she never answers. Some say it’s because no one is worthy of her. Others argue that she has taken a lover, a wolf that comes to her when the moon is at its fullest and that he makes her howl until the morning comes. Usually, Jon flees when such conversation begins. He cannot bear to listen to them, to witness the way their eyes light up when they say her name. When he cannot excuse himself, he shuts his mind to the outside word, forbidding a single word to enter his ears. He is not strong enough for that. 

 

She comes to Castle Black once. He knows it. She sends a raven to announce her impeding arrival. She wants to see how the reconstruction is going, if the newest additions to the Night’s Watch are worthy of their duty. As soon as Jon learns that she is on her way, he disappears into the Wilderness. He can’t help it, pretexting some urgent matter that needs to be discussed with the Free Folks, riding as far from the wall as he can. Ghost follows him - reluctantly it seems, the direwolf always smarter than the man - and Tormund is surprised to see him arrive so unexpectedly, so desperate to hide. He doesn’t ask. But as Jon spends almost two moons amongst them and looks gloomier than usual, the redhead man doesn’t need to. Just before Jon returns to Castle Back, he simply states

 

« She must be back to her castle by now. » 

 

Jon rides back to the Wall, his shadow darkened with shame.  When he finally arrives to what he should consider his home but somehow feels almost like a prison to him, he is welcomed by questioning stares. It’s no surprise to him. The Wall has never seen a Lord Commander fleeing before his Queen. 

 

« Your sister was here. »

 

Satin, his squire, simply reports as Jon dismounts from his horse. 

 

«  _Cousin_. She is my cousin. »

 

Jon corrects him, his jaw clenching as he represses any thoughts that could come to him right now. He’s gotten quite good at it, thinking of everything but the things that truly matter. The things that hurt, also. 

 

« She asked about you. »The young lad adds, following Jon through the stairs that lead to his solar. 

 

He doesn’t answer. What could he say? Of course she asked about him. She spent the last years worrying about him, he wouldn’t expect her giving up. 

 

_He doesn’t want her to give up._

 

« She wanted to wait for you. She was ready to wait for you, no matter how long you were away. »

 

These are the last words Jon hears before the heavy wood door closes behind him. He closes his eyes as he feels his breathing becoming more and more shallow. He has to be strong, he has to hold it together. He has no choice, after what he’s done. What he’s done to her. 

It’s only when Ghost lets out a gentle whine, snuffling his hand that Jon realises he is shaking. 

 

***

 

She comes a second time, unannounced, and this is the first time they meet again since they said their goodbyes. Tormund is at Castle Black, something that never occurs, and it’s almost as if the Old Gods were meaning for this to happen. The Gods are cruel, Jon knows it. But they can also show kindness. He doesn’t know which side of the coin they have decided for him when he sees her in the courtyard. 

 

« Lord Snow, two riders just crossed the gates of the Castle. »

 

Jon knows the situation is strange at the minute he is informed of such news, while he was sharing an ale with Tormund. The both men rise and follow the young boy, Ghost at their feet. But as soon as they are outside, Ghost suddenly stiffens and soon he is running before them, hurtling down the stairs. Jon looks at the unexpected guests and immediately understands why. 

 

 _She’s here_. Again. 

 

The picture that lays before him is so strikingly similar to a previous one that he witnessed years ago that Jon feels as his entire body is aching. Or perhaps it’s just his heart, but the pain is so great it spreads through his limbs. 

She stands there, in the courtyard of Castle Black, with an unusually tall woman at her side. Jon doesn’t need to look at Tormund to guess the look on his face: his friend never shared his ability to hide his feelings. Sometimes Jon envies him for that. 

 

He remembers how pale she looked then, her cheeks hollowed, the fierce colour of her hair vanished. She seemed barely alive, her eyes still full of the tears she hadn’t shed. He didn’t know what to say. He was never good with words, especially with her. For the first years of their lives, they only exchanged a few words. After that day, their conversations could go for hours, as if they were trying to make up for the time lost. 

 

It’s uncanny how much the woman standing before him has little to do with the girl he held in his arms, as the snow surrounded them, already crowning her. Instead of snowflakes, it is now two wolves that mark her a Sovereign. They are made with steel - just she is now - but their eyes shine above her head. One sapphire, one ruby. Blue and red. Jon gulps. He doesn’t dare to imagine what it means that she has chosen those particular colours to represent her title. 

 

« My Queen. »

 

He tilts in head in surprise in the direction of the man who just spoke. It is Tormund, kneeling before her. It’s such a strange sight that for a moment Jon wonders if this is not one of his many dreams. His sleep has never been more agitated than lately.

 

« If I didn’t know you any better Tormund Giantsbane, I might believe you were speaking to me. » 

 

Her tone is light, almost malicious and when Tormund rises, erupting into a large laughter, she joins him. Even Brienne, ever so serious, can’t repress a smile as her cheeks are now flushed with the slightest shade of pink. Her reaction is not left unnoticed by his friend who winks at the Lady Knight. Jon doesn’t know what to do with himself so he kneels - or rather he falls - because that gives him an excuse to lower his face and avoid her haunting gaze. 

 

« Please don’t. »

 

Her voice is softer than in his memories but there is a dainty rasp behind her words that scratches his skin. Gradually, Jon extends his legs, his torso unfolding, but his face is the latest part of his body to stand before her. And when it does, he has to suppress the impulse to envelop her with his arms, burying his face in the fur of her coat as he did a year ago. It almost feels as if it was yesterday.

He studies her, hungry for her features, thirsty for the subtle changes that might have altered the face he used to know so well. The whispers about her beauty have paid no justice to the incandescent aura that now surrounds her. Her auburn locks are simply braided at the top of her head, forming almost another crown, with the rest is set free around her shoulders. Her lips are full, the cold of the North had given them a redness that enhances the paleness of her skin. Her expression is unreadable and but the blue orbs that hold it is still the same. She looks older, he thinks. Her cheekbones are higher, making her the spitting image of her mother. But the fierceness that perspires from her being is Ned Stark’s legacy. She looks like Robb. She looks like of all the things he has lost.

They don’t talk much that day. It appears as if her visit was only to verify that is alive and well. Jon leads her to his solar while Brienne stays in the courtyard with Tormund, inquiring about the Free Folks. The Wall’s gate used to be sealed before women, but every one of his man has kneeled when she appeared in the courtyard, more regal than ever. Brienne is her sword, he now learns. She left Podrick to be in charge of Bran’s protection. King’s Landing walls shelter ghosts that even Ser Brienne of Tarth cannot face.

Being a Queen tires her. In the intimacy of his solar, when she removes her coat and the queenly mask that she wears, he is facing a young woman who misses her family. He sees the blue shadows that lay under her eyes, he notices that her features are not only sharp but also gaunt and the red colour of her mouth is due to constant biting. She is lonely. She doesn’t say it but Jon senses it. He is almost sure that the obscurity that never seems to leave her is the equivalent of the one that burdens him since that fateful day.

Arya is well, or her ravens say so. She seems to writing more to her sister than she is to him. He can’t blame her. He’s even relieved that it’s this way and not the other. She hopes to be back soon, declares that she misses Winterfell and even mentions a visit to Storm’s End when she returns. There is a spark in her eyes when she’s talking about her little sister that reassures Jon. She looks young, when she recalls Arya’s latest adventure oversea. She is still young. Her whole life awaits for her. Jon shivers at the thought that he won’t be part of it.

She doesn’t spend the night at Castle Black, arguing that she is awaited at Eastwatch. Jon learns that her arrival was a detour from a trip she is currently taking around her Kingdom. She wants to make sure the North is regaining his past strength but Jon is convinced that with such a Queen, the land of the Kings of Winter will rise from the Dragon’s ashes. He cannot say the same thing about him.

Before she mounts her stallion, she looks at him one more time. The shadows are gone, and he is left with the young girl that he welcomed with open arms years ago. The same doubt, the same despair, the same hope. He waits for her to speak, and when she does, her voice is barely a whisper.

“You never answered my question.”

Jon braces himself for the wave that crushes against his heart but the shock is so violent that even breathing is a difficult task. There are so many words, locked inside his soul, and he wishes nothing more than to be able to give them to her. But he knows he can’t. She deserves better than what he has to offer. She deserves life and he only carries death with him.

“Which one?”

She offers him the shadow of a smile but Jon knows that it’s only another mask that she wears, another armour to protect herself. She is so guarded now, that as Jon watches her leave, he realises they haven’t even touched one another. He stares, fists clenched, hoping that she’ll stop, yearning for her to look back at him. But the heavy doors of Castle Black closes before she does. And Jon is alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week later... Here we go again! Firstly, I want to thank all of you for the general response to this fic. I've been overwhelmed by the amount of love and support I've received after publishing the first chapter. Some of you have left me the kindest comments and I truly cannot thank you enough for that. This time we’ll explore Sansa’s POV and I have to admit I found it much difficult to write than Jon’s. So I hope the following chapter won’t disappoint you! There’s not much dialogue but that will come with happier times (and smuttier also, I promise).

Sansa waits for another year before she touches him again. They meet quite frequently during the many moon’s turns that follow that day at Castle Black, that reminds her so much of another day which had lead Sansa to find something she’d thought was lost for good: hope. She cannot leave Winterfell too often, the walls of her ancestors’ are barely standing again and there are too many mouths to feed, to many women to protect, to many men to heal, too many bodies to burn. Some nights, when she is alone in the quiet darkness of her chamber, she closes her eyes and let the tears escape from her eyes. She is not ashamed anymore. She doesn’t believe herself to be weak because she is scared. And Sansa is terrified.

She knows why she did what has to be done, why she betrayed a sacred vow, why she asked the North to be an independent kingdom. There is only one reason behind her behaviour since that dreary moment when the Dragon Queen crossed the gates of Winterfell, freeing them of the Long Night only to plunge the world in flames. Love. The love she bears for her people and her land. The love she carries for those she calls family and friends. She wears this love with pride but she hides another one in the depth of her remorse. But even though Sansa is convinced that her choices were the necessary ones, it does not mean she is at peace with it. She keeps her demons to herself, as always. She refuses to share it, especially not with him. He doesn’t need to know. He deserves to be free from her, at last.  
  
Bran knows, but what does the new King ignore now? They never talk about it, in fact they rarely talk about anything personal. The ravens that come back and forth between Winterfell and King’s Landing are merely words exchanged between two Monarchs, not a brother and a sister. Sansa wishes they took another road, while it was still possible. But it’s too late now. They have their respective crown to wear and it’s been a long time since their childhood has been crushed under the weight of war and politics. Still, sometimes Sansa finds herself gazing at the courtyard where they would spend days playing, unaware of the path that the Gods had already traced for them. She dreams about a world where none of them would have gone South, where she wouldn’t be ruling a ravaged kingdom, where her head would still be ringing with songs of knights and ladies. But such a world doesn’t exist and Sansa slowly comes to accept that there is no good for her in longing for the past. Instead, she only thinks about the future. The future of the North, mainly, and sometimes hers. But she only finds loneliness there so she decides to be a Queen first. The woman will come after.  
  
Brienne is the first to come to her. She sends a letter, expressing her desire to put her sword at the Queen in the North’s service. Sansa’s tears are almost happy that night, knowing that soon she would not be alone anymore. Then comes Ser Davos. This time, it is Bran’s command that his Master of Ships would become Sansa’s Hand. She is grateful for that, truly. She trusts him and his quiet wisdom swiftly becomes indispensable. He appeases her, in a way. He brings with him the new Lord of Storm’s Land, Gendry Baratheon, who kneels before Sansa and ask her to help him become a good ruler. She agrees, for the friendship that united their fathers and for the love they both share for a girl who’s too far away from home.

They don’t talk about the ghosts that haunt them but Gendry is a good student and he stays at Winterfell for only a few moon’s turns before riding back to his lands. He promises to write and she declares she will visit. When he leaves, Sansa’s heart aches softly as she realises he reminds her so much of Robb, somehow. Strong, persistent and compassionate. As she watches his party disappear into the horizon, she secretly wishes that when their path meet again, she won’t be standing alone in the courtyard. Gendry has fought too much for the living to spend his life half-alive. He deserves to find peace - altough Sansa knows that her little sister is more of a restless ocean rather than a quiet sea. Still, there is something about these two that lead Sansa to believe that they could be good for each other. Gods know their lives need _good_.

 

***

  
He’s not at Castle Back when she comes for the first time. The men are embarrassed of their Lord Commander’s absence and their contrition is worsened by the fact that no one can explain why he’s not there nor when he’s coming back. So Sansa waits. She thoroughly visits Castle Black and the Wall, even decides to extend her stay so Brienne can share her advices with the new Night’s Watch’s instructors. But she cannot wait for him forever, she knows that. She is no longer the broken young girl that sought shelter in her brother’s arms. She is a Queen and it is her arms that should now offer protection to those in need for it. So she leaves. And she returns.

This time he is here. Sansa craves his tender embrace but she knows she doesn’t deserve it. They talk, and she leaves again. Brienne doesn’t say anything – she rarely does. But that night, when Eastwatch’s hall welcomes a small feast and that rangers and Free Folks raise their cups to the Queen, she smiles at her in a way that she never did before. They understand each other in more ways than one, and having Brienne by her side brings her more comfort that she ever tells her. The Lady Commander of her Queensgard has lived through many fights and many things but somehow she still can’t believe that one could actually love her. Sansa understands it and she respects her most cherished friend’s quiet nature. When Brienne escorts her to her chambers that night, she bids her goodnight in the most usual way.  
  
« Sleep well, Lady Sansa. You deserve some rest now. »  
  
Brienne never calls her « Your Grace » in private, Sansa forbids it. But there is a tenderness in her voice when she says her name, a genuine concern about her suzerain’s state that it makes Sansa’s heart ache. For the first time in many moons, the sense of emptiness that she carries everywhere she goes, hidden behind her courtesy, seems to have slightly shrugged. But when she goes to sleep, his is the only face her mind invokes. And Sansa wakes up with tears in her eyes and his name on her lips.

They meet quite frequently afterwards, the Wall is being rebuild and the castles that the Night’s Watch once abandoned are lighting up their torches again. The war has filled the North with orphans and Winterfell can’t welcome them all. The boys are sent to the Wall, not as a punishment or a banishment but to receive an education. The Others have been defeated, the Free Folks are no enemies but Sansa can’t just disband the Night’s Watch. Sometimes she wonders what would happen if she does, if he would come back, come home. It’s a selfish thought, unworthy of a Queen, so then she represses it, lock it in the depths of her heart. Castle Black becomes the home of strange creatures, too young to be called men but too scarred to be boys again. Orphans becomes brothers and in this newly found family, they learn not how to fight and destroy but how to build, how to grow, how to live again when they have faced death itself.

Sansa can’t send the girls along, as they are no women at the Wall. Yet. The Long Night has been the stage of a constant showcase of female strengths and the Queen in the North refuses that those of her sex should be cast aside. Winterfell’s walls welcomes young girls whose education goes far beyond sewing and dancing. They learn how to read, how to count, how to think and Brienne is more than happy when one of them decides to learn how to fight. Sometimes, Sansa glances at the courtyard from the balcony and she sees a girl who will not endure the same fate as her. That is enough to give her the satisfaction that she might be a decent ruler. But sometimes, the crown is so heavy to carry that Sansa feels like she might faint from the weight that has been placed on her shoulders. She never intended this role to be hers to play. Asking for the North’s independence was asking for their King to come home.

 _He should rule this kingdom, not me_.

Sansa sometimes dreams that they sit side by side in the hall of Winterfell, like they stood many years ago, a spitting image of her parents. It’s only a dream, as the previous King in the North never ventures to the ramparts that he used to protect. She doesn’t ask him to, because she so fearful of his refusal that she keeps her pleas to herself. Their encounters are always polite, and Sansa is thankful that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and the Queen in the North have always urgent matters to discuss to prevent her from digressing towards much more dangerous topics. He looks even lonelier than she feels and there are days when she wants nothing more than to cup his face between her hands and ask him if he is okay.

But they never touch.

He greets her with a slight bow and she leaves him with a smile. Whether they walk in the endless corridors of Castle Black or they ride through the snow-covered woods of The Gift, their bodies never so much as brush against one another. Sansa longs for his embrace, for the way his arms would clasp around her waist, making her whole, making her feel home. She is aware that some spiteful tongues like to call her the Ice Queen and she doesn’t mind. She is conscious that the fire she fought so hard to extinguish could be flared up with a mere contact of his skin against hers. She also knows that this blaze could burn a kingdom.

Or seven.

They never share a meal or a roof and Sansa wonders if he does it on purpose, always meeting her during the day and making sure that she has somewhere to go or something to do afterwards. But still, his gaze always hardens when she leaves. It’s like he longs to see her but that it pains him to be in her presence for more than a certain time. Sansa doesn’t know what to think about that and she’d rather not consume herself in such an inquiry. Until one night, she has no choice but to dive into those dark waters she has avoided since she saw his face – unchanged yet different – at Castle Black. She is staying at this very castle, she came for a simple meeting with the Lord Commander to discuss the rebuilding of the Wall and its consequences. Winter is here, as her father always promised, and Sansa understands why Old Nan would suddenly shiver when she talked about the winter that came before their birth. Snow is everywhere and she cannot continue her journey in the storm that is now raging against the bulwarks. The Night’s Watch do not welcome women for the night but once again, Brienne and Sansa find themselves sharing a meal with the Black Brothers.

This is so oddly familiar to Sansa but instead of the loving brother that welcomed her, she finds a distant cousin. Edd is dead, Sam is in King’s Landing and she even wishes that Tormund would be here, for his fermented milk and never-ending stories have the benefit to light a spark in Brienne’s eyes that has be gone when Jaime Lannister rode South and never returned. They don’t speak of him but Sansa knows Brienne carries his name on the edge of her lips. She doesn’t blame her, some names are difficult to forget, in particular when they were pronounced some many times in so many ways.

“Do you miss him?” she had asked one day, after a council that had proved to be particularly exhausting.

“Some days.” Brienne’s voice was only a whisper, and for a second she looked like the young girl that she had never allowed herself to be. “It depends on the colour of the sky.”

Sansa hadn’t known what to respond. She had just taken Brienne’s hand into hers, hoping that this touch would translate what words couldn’t convey. It had, given the last words that her sworn sword had said to her that night.

“I suppose it’s easier that he’s gone. Missing someone that is so close and yet so far away must be a heavy burden.”

 

***

 

 

Sansa wonders if she is so easy to read, as she contemplates the man sitting in front of the fire next to her. After the meal had ended, Brienne had declared that she would retire in her chambers as she trusted her Queen would be safe with her cousin. Sansa doesn’t know if she is to thank her or to curse her. She feels safe with him, even after all the years, even after what he said or did. Sansa doesn’t forget but she is starting to forgive. And as she examines the familiar features of his face, she realises that he is still the only man that she truly trusts. She would have given her life for him, and he can’t seem to bring himself to look at her in the eyes.

“You hold your liquor much better than you used to do.”

His voice breaks the silence and Sansa realises she was barely breathing before he spoke.

“Do you remember?” Her own voice is softer than usual, and even the shadow of a smile curls up her lips. “The first time I came here?”

“Aye, I remember.” He takes a sip from his cup of hot mulled wine and Sansa wonders if the vapours of alcohol gives him as much courage as they give her, “I thought you were a mirage.”

“And I thought you were a dream.”

He looks at her, grey stones meeting blue pools, and Sansa realises that the wind that rages outside is nothing in comparison to the storm that crashes against her. Yet, she has to speak because she fears that if she silences herself now, something might be lost forever. She has to be brave, if not for her, then for him.

“I’ve done things that I regret. Coming to Castle Black was never one of them. It will never be.”

His eyes slightly widened as surprise hits him. He did not expect such a confession, Sansa fathoms. Her words carry a heavier weight than she intended but she does not regret it, she has been surrounded by lies and pretences for too long. Honesty is harsh but is also just. Like the North.

“There was nothing to forgive then.” He is still looking at her and Sansa notices that there is a newly found softness in his gaze. “There is nothing to forgive now.”

She doesn’t even think of it before her hand fly to meet his, and she grasps it, with the same strength that when he had embraced her when he found her in the courtyard of Castle Black, carrying the same meaning that when she had bidden him goodbye at King’s Landing. It says her thanks and her excuses, it says her love and her regrets, it says her hope and her remorse. He holds her stare and he grips back, for a period of time that could be forever or barely a blink. It does not matter because this moment exists and suddenly the room feels warmer. They do not talk anymore about what’s been expressed but not said, but Sansa does not need them to.

When the fire is barely a pile of embers, he accompanies her to the chambers that have been prepared for her. He stops at the door frame, a silent indication that he will not enter, and he takes her hand in his again. Slowly, he lifts it up until his lips meet her skin and there is something in her depths that howls. The Red Wolf, the small folks call her. The Queen in the North contains more beast in her than she cares to offer and those who have called her a bird should know better.

“Goodnight Sansa.”

And for a second, she is not a queen nor a lady. She is a girl, she is a young woman and the road that lays before her is hers to draw.

“Goodnight Jon.”

When he leaves, her mouth is still heavy with the sound of his name. And she goes to sleep, she knows that if tomorrow her cheeks are humid, there will be joy blending with sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, please be nice enough to leave a kudo or a comment. I'm a thirsty writer and your reactions to my work are like Dornish Wine to me! ;)


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